War to the Knife

Auckland once more! The traveller, though now a confirmed roamer, was, for obvious reasons, by no means grieved to find himself again in the haunts of civilized man. He had been interested, instructed, illuminated, as he told himself, by this sojourn in woodlands wild. Face to face with Nature, untrammelled by art, he had seen her children in peace, in love and friendship. He was now, as all things portended, about to obtain a closer knowledge of them in war – a rare and privileged experience, unknown to the ordinary individual. How grateful should he be for the opportunity!

His first care was to possess himself of his letters and papers. There were not many of the former, still fewer of the latter. The county paper gave the usual information, as to poachers fined or imprisoned, a boy sent to gaol for stealing turnips. The hunting season had been fortunate. More visitors than usual. The riding of Mr. Lexington, son of the new owner of Massinger Court, had been much admired. That gentleman had exhibited judgment as well as nerve and horsemanship in (as they were informed) his first season's hunting in England. His shooting, too, was exceptional, and a brilliant career was predicted for him with the North Herefordshire hounds. A few epistles came from club friends and relatives. They were of the sort written more or less as a duty to the expatriated Briton, but which rarely survive the second year. The writers seemed much in doubt as to his locale, and uncertain whether New Zealand was one of the South Sea Islands or part of Australia. They all wished him good luck, and foretold future prosperity as a farmer, which was the only successful occupation out there (they were told) except digging for gold, which was agreed to be uncertain, if not dangerous. They concluded with a strong wish that he would come back a quasi-millionaire before he became a confirmed backwoodsman. And he was on no account to marry a "colonial" girl, when there were so many charming, educated damsels at home. This last from a lady cousin, who had with difficulty restrained herself from imparting the last South African news, as being apposite to his situation and circumstances.

These despatches were put down with an impatient exclamation, after which he sat gazing from the window of his hotel, which afforded a fine view of the harbour. Then he took up a letter in a hardly feminine hand, which he had placed somewhat apart, as a bonne bouche for the latter end of the collection. This turned out to be from his candid and free-spoken friend, Mrs. Merivale, née Branksome – a matter which he had probably divined as soon as he glanced at the rounded characters and decided expression of the handwriting.

Opening it with an air of pleasurable expectation, and observing with satisfaction a couple of well-filled sheets, he read as follows: —

"My dear Sir Roland,

"Now that I am safely married and all that, I may make use of your Christian name, with the affectionate adjective, I suppose. The adverb in the first line was part of the congratulation of my great-aunt, who evidently thought that any girl with a decent amount of go in her, who did not habitually confine herself to phrases out of Mrs. Hannah More's works and read the Young Lady's Companion, was likely to end up with marrying an actor or an artist, whose useful and more or less ornamental professions she regarded as being much of a muchness with those of a music or dancing master.

"Well, one of the advantages of my present 'safe' and dignified position is that I can have friends, even if they happen to be young men, and give them advice. This I used to do before, as you know, though as it were under protest. 'This is all very fine,' I can hear you say, 'but why can't she leave off writing about herself, and tell me about – about – why, of course, Hypatia Tollemache. Is she "safely" married (hateful word!), gone into a sisterhood, started for Northern India to explore the Zenanas, and teach the unwilling "lights of the harems" what they can't understand, and wouldn't want if they did?' None of these things have happened as yet, though they are all on the cards. She tried 'slumming' for a time, but her health broke down, and she had a bad time with scarlet fever. I made her come and stay with me after she was convalescent, and oh, how deadly white and weak she was! – she that was such a tennis crack, and could walk like a gamekeeper. I tried with delicacy and tact (for which, you know, I was always famous!) to draw her about your chances – say in five years or so. But she would not rise. Said, 'people were not sent into the world to enjoy themselves selfishly,' or some such bosh; that she had her appointed work, and as long as God gave her strength she would expend what poor gifts He had endowed her with, or die at her post; that in contrast with the benefits to thousands of our suffering fellow-creatures which one earnest worker might produce, how small and mean seemed the conventional marriage, with its margin narrowed to household cares, a husband and children! Were there not whole continents of our poor, deprived not only of decent food, raiment, lodging, by the merciless Juggernaut of inherited social injustice, but of the knowledge which every adult of a civilized community should enjoy without cost? And should any man or woman, to whom God has granted a luxurious portion of the blessings of life, stand by and refuse aid, the aid of time and personal gifts, to save these perishing multitudes? When a girl begins to talk in this way, we know how it will end. In the uniform of a hospital nurse; in a premature funeral; in marriage with a philanthropist, half fanatic, half adventurer: what Harry calls a 'worm' of some sort – the sort of parasite that preys upon good-looking or talented women.

"Dear me! as my aunt says, I am getting quite flowery and didactic. Isn't that something in the teaching or preaching line? I forget which. Harry says I am a journalist spoilt. I don't know about that, but I should like to be a war correspondent. I am afraid there is no opening for a young woman in that line yet – a young woman who isn't clever enough to be a governess, loathes nursing, would assassinate her employer if she was a lady help, but who can walk, ride, drive, play tennis, and shoot fairly. By the way, there's going to be a war in the South Island, isn't it? Couldn't you contrive to be badly wounded? and perhaps – only perhaps – she, 'the fair, the chaste, the inexpressive she,' might come out to nurse you.

"Harry says that's a certain cure for – let me see – indecision, the malady of the century as regards young women. I remember being troubled with it myself once. He says I was – whereas now – but I won't inflict my happiness upon you.

"What a long letter, to be sure! Never mind the nonsense part of it. That is partly to make you laugh. He advises you, in the elegant language of the day, to 'keep up your pecker,' which he says means nil desperandum. I say ditto to Harry, and ask you to believe me, always,

"Your sincere friend,"Elizabeth Merivale."

Massinger put down the letter of his frank and kindly correspondent with feelings of a mixed nature, akin to pleasure, as evidencing an interest in his welfare not all conventional, but, on the other hand, recalling regrets exquisitely painful. These being partially dulled, he had mistakenly concluded that they had no further power to wound. And now, after a comparative cure, when his tastes had been satisfied and his curiosity aroused by the incessant marvels of a fantastic region, he had been recalled to the old land, resonant with the past anguish. The inhabitants of this enchanted isle, with their mingled pride and generosity, chivalrous courage and ferocious cruelty, had aroused his sympathies. There, beyond all, stood the figure of Erena, with her frank, half-childish ways, her countenance at one time irradiated with the joyous abandon of an innocent Bacchante, as she laughed aloud while threading with him the forest paths; at another time with shadowed face and downcast mien, when a presage of future ills caused the light to fade out of her luminous eyes.

The free forest life, with its daily recurrence of adventure and excitement, had sufficed for all the needs of his changed existence. And now, even by the hand of a friend, were the seeds of unrest sown. He thought of Hypatia Tollemache stricken down in the pride of her mental and bodily vigour, laid low in the conflict in which she had so rashly, so wastefully, risked her magnificent endowments. Had he been in the neighbourhood of Massinger, to cheer, to comfort, to gently question her plan of life, to offer to share it with her, to urge his suit with all the adventitious aid of predilection and propinquity, what success, unhoped for, indescribable, might he not then have gained?

At this stage of his reflections he collected his correspondence, and, locking them up in his long-disused travelling portfolio, went forth into the town. Here he was confronted with the world's news, and details of this, the latest of Britain's little wars, in particular. First of all he betook himself to the offices of the New Zealand Land Company, where his first colonial acquaintance and fellow-passenger, Mr. Dudley Slyde, might be found.

That gentleman was, happily, in, but his arduous duties as secretary and dispenser of reports seemed for the moment in abeyance. He was engaged in packing a sort of knapsack to contain as many of the indispensable necessaries of a man of fashion, and apparently a man of war, as could be adjusted to an unusual limitation of space. A rifle stood in the corner of the apartment; a revolver of the newest construction then attainable lay on a table; the smallest modicum of writing materials was observable; and, neatly folded on a chair, was a serviceable military uniform.

"Delighted to see you, old fellow," said Mr. Slyde. "Sit down. Try this tobacco: given up cigars for the present – don't carry well. Suppose you've taken to a pipe, too, since you've begun your Maori career? Got back alive, I see. Didn't join the tribe, eh? Report to that effect. Girl at Rotorua, fascinating, very."

This suggestive compendium of his life and times caused a smile.

"You're as near the truth as rumour generally is," he said; "but I wonder that people concern themselves with the doings of this humble individual."

"New country, you know. Great dearth of social intelligence since the war. Tired of that, naturally. Free press, you know; say anything, confound them!"

"Another chapter in the book of colonial experience, which I shall learn by degrees. But what am I to understand by these warlike preparations?"

"You see before you a full private in the Forest Rangers. Must join something, you know. Situation serious. More murders. Waikato said to be joining. Taranaki settlers afraid of sack and pillage. Troops and men-of-war sent for. In the mean time, the devil to pay. What shall you do? Go back to England? I would, if I wasn't a poor devil of a Company's clerk and what you call it."

Massinger stood up, and looked at the lounging figure fixedly for a moment, until he saw a smile gradually making its way over the calm features of his companion.

"No, of course not," he said, as if answering an apparent protest. "Only my chaff. What will you join? Town volunteers? militia? Ours rather more aristocratic; trifle more danger, perhaps. Corps of the Guides, and so on. Von Tempsky's Forest Rangers! Splendid fellow, Von – Paladin of the Middle Ages. Seen service, too. Son of a Prussian general, I believe. Commission in 3rd Fusiliers in '44. Cut that, and travelled through Central America. Commanded irregular Indian regiment. Piloted officers of Alarm and Vixen in affair of the Spanish stockades at Castilla Viojo. Been in front everywhere, from Bluefields Bay to Bourke and Wills' Expedition in Australia, when he refused to be second in command. Man and regiment suit you all to pieces."

"Just the man I should choose to serve under. Where can I be sworn in, and when?"

"All right; I'll show you. Leave for the front, day after tomorrow. Jolly glad to have you, believe me."

This important ceremony being performed in due course, Massinger betook himself to the office of Mr. Lochiel, where he expected to receive fuller information as to the state of the country, and the prospects of a general rising. He was received by that gentleman with warmth and sincerity of welcome.

"My dear fellow," said he, "I am delighted to see you safe back. Macdonald and I were most anxious about you. We knew that you must pass through Maori country, and in the present disturbed state of the island there was no saying what might have happened to you, or indeed to any solitary Englishman. I hear that you returned by sea."

"I was advised to do so by Mr. Mannering at Hokianga, with whom I stayed for a few days."

"Best thing you could have done, and no one was more capable of giving you advice. He is judge and law-giver among the Ngapuhi, and a war chief besides. A truly remarkable man. I suppose you saw his handsome daughter? Wonderful girl, isn't she?"

"She certainly did surprise me. It seems strange that she can consent to lead a life so lonely, so removed from the civilization which she is so fitted to appreciate."

"And adorn likewise. We are all very fond of her here. But she is passionately attached to her father, and nothing would induce her to leave him. Have you heard the latest war news? Came in by special messenger this afternoon."

"No, indeed. I am only generally aware that matters are going from bad to worse; that the militia and volunteers are called out; also the Forest Rangers, in which band of heroes I have just enrolled myself. Dudley Slyde and I will be companions in arms."

"Slyde! Dudley Slyde? Very cool hand; rather a dandy, people say. All the more likely to fight when he's put to it. He knows the country well, too. There is no doubt in my mind that every white man in the North Island who can carry arms will have to turn out."

"And how long do you think the war will last? Six months?"

"I should not like to say six years, but it will be nearer that than the time you mention. Maclean thinks five thousand troops will be required if the neighbouring tribes join Te Rangitake. Richmond is of the same opinion. Three Europeans have been shot on the Omata block. It was to avenge these that the volunteers and militia turned out, when the men of H.M.S. Niger behaved so splendidly; the volunteers also held their own."

"Is there any further demonstration?"

"Yes; a great hui, or meeting, has been held at Ngarua-wahia, on the Waikato. They say that three thousand Maoris were present, who were all on the side of Te Rangitake. Fifty of his tribe were there, asking for help."

"And what was the outcome of it all?"

"They were agreed in one thing – that the Governor was too hasty in fighting before it was proved to whom the land really belonged. The killing of men at the Omata block naturally followed when once – as by destroying the pah at Waitara – war had begun."

"What became of Te Rangitake's fifty men?"

"Well, a body of the Nga-ti-mania-poto went back to Taranaki with them under Epiha, the chief. On the way they met Mr. Parris, the Taranaki land commissioner, whom the Maoris blamed for the Waitara affair. Te Rangitake's people wanted to kill him at once, but Epiha drew up his men, took him under his protection, and escorted him to a place of safety. Parris began to thank him, but was stopped at once.

'Friend,' said the chief, 'do not attribute your deliverance to me, but to God. I shall meet you as an enemy in the daylight. Now you have seen that I would not consent to you being murdered.'"

"What a fine trait in a man's character!" said Massinger. "And what discipline his men were in to withstand the other fellows, and save the man's life who was responsible, they believed, for all the mischief!"

"Yes, that's the Maori chief all over. He has the most romantic ideas on certain points, and acts up to them, which is more than our people always do. But I hear that the Governor is going to stop the Waitara business for the present – very sensibly – and give the natives south of New Plymouth a lesson."

"And what about the settlers around Taranaki?"

"They have been forced to abandon their farms. The women and children have taken refuge in the town, while Colonel Gold has destroyed the mills, crops, and houses of the natives on the Tataraimaka block. So the war may be regarded as being fairly, or rather unfairly, begun; God alone knows when it may end."

CHAPTER XI

The natives alleged that they had taken up arms against manifest wrong and injustice; but underlying all other motives and actions was the land question. The more sagacious chiefs entertained fears of the alienation of their territories. The growing superiority of the white settlers troubled them. Outnumbered, fighting against superior weapons, the day seemed near when, as in their songs and recitations, they began to lament, "The Maori people would be like a flock of birds upon a rock, with the sea rising fast around them." The time seemed propitious to unite the tribes against the common foe. The natives were estimated at sixty thousand, a large number being available fighting men. One determined assault upon the whites, who were not, as was supposed, more than eighty thousand, might settle the question.

Mr. (afterwards Sir) William Fitzherbert said in the House in 1861 that "the remark that we were living at the mercy of the natives was true, and reflected the greatest credit upon them. They had that knowledge, and yet forbore to use their power." Now, however, war was declared between the two races; the untarnished honour of the British flag must be maintained.

At that time in the distracted colony there lived, strange to say, a body of men whose interests were primarily concerned neither with the acquisition of land, the profits of trade, nor the so-called prestige of the British crown. Voyaging to New Zealand long years ago, they announced themselves to be the bearers of a Divine message, the significance of which was nearly two thousand years old. With the weapons of peace and good will they confronted the savage conquerors of the day. They lived among them unharmed, though not always able to prevent the torture of captives, the execution of enemies taken in fight, or to stay the hand of the fierce tribes thirsting for conquest or revenge. But they had done much. They had laboured zealously and unselfishly. They had risked their lives, and those of the devoted wives who had accompanied them into the habitations of the heathen. Following the example of their pioneer pastor, the saintly Samuel Marsden, they had introduced the arts of peace. They had ploughed and sowed, reaped and garnered. Favoured by the rich soil and moist climate, the cereals, the plants, the edible roots of older lands had flourished abundantly.

The heathen, though slow to perceive the benefit of such labours, had come to comprehend and to imitate. They shared in the fruits of the earth so abundantly provided. Trade had sprung up with adjoining colonies; and, with the white man's tools, his grain, his horses, his cattle, and sheep, in all of which the Maori was allowed to participate, came the revelation of the white man's God, the white man's faith, the white man's schools; the missionary's example did the rest. Gradually these agencies commenced to sway the rude and turbulent tribes. A highly intelligent race, they deduced rules of conduct from the mikonaree, who was so different from any species of white man they had previously known. He was brave, for did he not from time to time risk his life, for peace' sake alone, between excited bands of enemies? He made war on none; he was slow to defend himself; he trusted for protection in that Great Being who had preserved him, his wife and little ones, in the midst of dangers by land and sea. From time to time he took dangerous journeys, he crossed swollen rivers, he traversed pathless forests, he risked his life in frail barks on stormy seas, to prevent war, to release captives.

After years of toil and trial the reward of these devoted servants of the Lord appeared to be assured. Many of the older chiefs, men of weight and authority, were baptized as earnest converts. Others protected the missionaries, though they refused to quit the faith of their ancestors. The schools flourished, and, unprecedented among other races, aged men learned to read and write. The Bible was translated into the simple yet sonorous Maori tongue. Saw-mills and flour-mills, owned by natives, arose; vessels even were built for them, in which their produce was taken to other ports. As far back as the bloodthirsty raids of Te Waharoa, the ruthless massacres of Hongi and Rauperaha, the missionary lived amidst the people for whose spiritual welfare he had dared danger and death, exile and privation.

The members of the different Christian Churches had shared emulously in the good work. Wesleyans and Presbyterians, the Church of England and the Roman Catholic hierarchy, all had their representatives; all supported ministers vowed to the service of the heathen. Not always went they scathless. These soldiers of the Cross had seen their cottage homes burned, their families driven forth to seek shelter and protection at a distance. But, even when the worst passions of contending parties were aroused, there never failed them a chief or a warrior who took upon himself the charge of the helpless fugitives.

The earlier missions were organized by remarkable men. Their descendants occupy high positions, and inherit the respect which to their fathers was always accorded. But the most commanding figure in the little army of Christian soldiers, the most striking personality, was Selwyn, the first bishop of New Zealand. No ordinary cleric was the dauntless athlete, the apostolic prelate, the daring herald of good tidings, reckless of personal danger whether in war or peace. When the Waikato warriors, three hundred strong, went down the river from Ngarua-wahia under the young Matutauere, the bishop, travelling on foot, carried a message to friendly chiefs, who undertook to bar the war-party from passing through their territory. The settler at whose house the bishop arrived soon after sunrise, dripping with water from the fording of a creek, told the story. Had his remonstrances, strengthened by those of the venerable Henry Williams, Chief Justice Martin, and Sir William Denison, received the consideration to which they were entitled, "the great war of 1860, with its resultant, the greater war of 1863," would never have been fought. England's taxpayers would have been richer by the interest paid on a sum of several millions, and England's dead, whose bones are resting in distant cemeteries, or in unknown graves on many a ferny hillside, would have been saved to family and friends.

However, at this stage all developments lay shrouded in the veil of the future. On whosoever lay the blame, war had commenced in earnest, and, according to British traditions, must be fought out. It was arming and hurrying with all classes and all ages in Auckland, A.D. 1860. Volunteers, militia, regulars, marines, bluejackets, were all under marching orders; martial law was proclaimed around Taranaki; all the ingredients of the devil's cauldron were simmering and ready to burst forth.

If Massinger had desired the excitements of danger, of battle, murder, and sudden death, this was the place and the time, to the very hour.

He had found no difficulty in enrolling himself among the force known as Von Tempsky's Forest Rangers. It was composed of the most resolute, daring spirits of the colony, many of whom had either been born in New Zealand or been brought up there from infancy. As a rule, used to country life, they rode well, and were good marksmen. A large proportion of them were the sons of farmers, but there were also men who had held good positions in their day. Having lost their money, or otherwise drifted out of the ranks of the well-to-do, they cheerfully enlisted in this arm of the force, which, if irregular in discipline, had a prestige which the ordinary militia and volunteer regiments lacked.

In such a corps the personal character of the leader is everything; and in this respect they were exceptionally fortunate. Carl Von Tempsky, the son of a Prussian officer high in service, was a soldier of fortune in the best sense of the word. He had served for several years with credit, if not distinction, until the temptation of a free adventurous life proved too strong for him. He quitted the ranks of the 3rd Fusiliers for a long ramble in Mexico, during which he held various military commands.